Home is Where the Heart is
by Bethany Ruth
Summary: Monologue-style writing, can be any character you wish, no names mentioned. Rated M for violence. My first story.


Home is where the heart is. The sentence itself sickens me to my very core. I still hear the music now.

You don't have to say you love me,  
>Just be close at hand,<br>You don't have to stay forever,  
>I will understand,<p>

Believe me, believe me. Those strings, so elegant, still play on the surface of my mind. You had my heart: you were my home. To describe you would be easy were it not for the time. It's been years since I've been with you, since I've been home. I remember your face well enough. I remember eyebrows, well arched over your eyes; the left one had a scar where hair didn't grow. I remember crooked teeth, well cushioned by ridiculously full lips. A nose that was envied – no doubt – by Owen Wilson and Barbara Streisand: so straight and noble, like a King's. I remember your eyes, but for the life of me I can't place a colour. I think grey, but blue or green is just as believable, believe me, believe me. Perhaps a combination of the three, I'll never be sure again; it's been years since I've been home.

I like to think the same about you too; I like to think it's been years since you've been home, assuming home is where the heart is and your heart is with me. That's why the phrase sickens me so much; your heart was never with me was it? I feel cold, concrete.

It was playing the day we wed. We liked the beginning the most, and already had a special connection with it.

Quirked eyebrows were all around at our choice for our first dance together as man and wife. At least, that's what I used to think they were for. Little did I know, people were really thinking: "How did _she_ get _him_ to settle down?" I didn't know our friends and family were so sour, nor did I know they were right to question your fidelity; you seemed such an unlikely sort for the whole 'bachelor' lifestyle to me: you just didn't have the personality, too sweet, too soft. We danced to it all the same.

You don't have to say you love me,  
>Just be close at hand,<br>You don't have to stay forever,  
>I will understand.<p>

Believe me, believe me. We waltzed beautifully; two pieces of a perfect puzzle, at least that's how I saw it. I was one piece, my heart, I gave it to you. You were many pieces, of which you only gave me one, the rest to be divided up among whomever you chose. You whispered to me as we danced: "Remember when we met? You were just as beautiful then as you are now." I believed you.

I do remember when we met. It was playing then too; that was our connection with it. We were at a disco with our friends, not yet met. It started playing, vibrating the speakers. Everyone hears it and I'm the only one of my friends who recognises it. The dramatic strings cry out to me and I find myself on the dance floor. That's when you see me, singing at the top of my lungs with all my heart. In a rush; as though you'd never get this chance again – which you probably wouldn't – you head on to the dance floor also, and sing, at me.

Our eyes met and we were singing a song years before our time and it became apparent that we were holding hands. "Believe me, believe me." We sang energetically to one another, our friends watching from afar. When the song ended our hands didn't part and we proceeded to introduce ourselves. You bought me a drink and now you're my husband. It's been years since I've seen you though, years since I've been home. Now I feel cold, concrete.

After our marriage, the voices only got louder. 'He can't have settled for _her_', 'He can do so much better, so much _more_', 'He probably is'. You were doing more, more than me. More than plain, little me. I can't have been anywhere near interesting enough or curvy enough or smart enough or funny enough. Not for you. Your heart was not mine; I was not your home. Every time we were together, every time I felt your hands on me, every time you smiled in that warm way and told me you loved me, I heard their voices. 'He doesn't love you.' 'He does not belong to you the way you belong to him because he will not give himself to you.' They were right, at the time. You'd kiss me and wish I was someone else, I could tell. Hold me and not let me go till morning. You loved me in every sense of the word.

The next time I heard it was the day the voices took over. You came home from 'work' I assume, same time as always. Your tie was undone around your shirt collar; you looked tired, like you'd been with one of them, like you'd had a hard day at the office. You looked to me, sipping on my wine. You weren't to know it was my third bottle, I hadn't even noticed. "Hello Darling, our song? Do you want to dance?" You grinned in that roguish way that only your wonky teeth could. That way that all your family loved. That way that won all the hearts. I returned the gesture best I could and nodded, accepting your hand and beginning the waltz.

I kept my glass.

It smashed as I dropped it to the floor, miles below us. We stopped so I could pick up the stalk, missing the goblet that once perched on the end; instead shards took its place. I accepted your hand once more as your rose me to my feet, still smiling lovingly. I gripped your hand hard and drove the stalk of the wine glass into your veiny wrist.

Howling in pain, you fell to your knees, landing in the broken goblet shards and wincing again. 'He doesn't love you.' 'He loves her. He loves them'.

"Who is she?" I screamed, your face turning blurry through my tears. You said you didn't know what I was talking about. I was hurting you, you said. 'He's lying', 'He's been with her.' I questioned you again, letting you know I knew about her, about them. You told me I was crazy. Anger filled me and I twisted the wine glass, feeling your veins burst open and your tendons straining. You were probably crying: I was blinded by my sorrow and rage by this point. You were begging for me to stop. Crying out to me:

"Believe me! Believe me!" That's when I figured it out. The voices spoke and I listened to them. 'He does not love you. He does not belong to you the way you belong to him because he will not give his heart to you. You must take it from him.' And I did. One sharp tug and the stalk was out of your now gaping wrist. One sharp stab and it was in your neck, twisting and breaking skin and ligaments, tearing through muscles like you were its last feast. And I let it.

Lacking the grace you owned when we waltzed, you fell backwards, your working hand clutching at my stalk-yielding hand, desperate to get me away from you. You've always been desperate to do that, the voices say. I climb on top of you, batting your weak hand and opening your shirt with a hearty tear. I crank the wine glass out, and in again, out, in, out, until your cries can't hurt me anymore.

Then I take to your bare chest, cutting you like a biology dissection. My slicing is not neat and it takes a long time before I finally break enough flesh to see my prize. I start tearing with anything I can. The wine glass, the bottle, my bare hands. It's okay, I tell you, we have the world now. Minutes, hours, centuries later I finally reach it. My red liquid gloves caress it lovingly through the cage you keep it in. Your heart. I sever any ties it still has with you and hold it to mine so I can finally feel you this close. I kiss it and stroke it and clutch it in my grasp. Your heart is finally mine, you're home.

The phone rang the next morning when you had not showed up for work. We had not moved. You and I were still entwined in love together, your open wrist, neck, and chest reeking loyalty around us as together we hold your heart, our heart, my heart.

Three days later and it still plays, and we still lie on the cream-cum-crimson carpet. I sing to you, the way I did when we met, and when we wed, only now I am happy because you are finally home in me, I have your heart at last. I sing:

"You don't have to say you love me, just be close at hand. You don't have to stay forever I will understand. Believe me, believe me. I can't help but love you."

The only thing I ever wondered about, when people called and left messages for us, was why none of _them_ ever called. None of your harlots ever called, not the house phone, not your mobile phone, not a knock at the door, not a letter through the post. The voices had gone and all that was left was us. We were happy, but I couldn't help but wonder why there was no-one else. Perhaps I'd had your heart all along. It is then that the door is opened and I hear distant screaming and soon enough sirens. I don't see it. I am focused on trying to decipher your eye colour: it is difficult as your tears blur them considerably. Before I can settle on grey, blue, green, or a combination, I am pulled from you and forced to drop your heart, your home. The voices were – for once – silent. Gone. There was nothing.

And now I hear it here. I feel cold concrete on all sides of me and I still hear those dramatic strings playing on the surface of my mind. Reminding me of the time when my arms were not strapped down and they were adorned with satin gloves of vermillion love. Reminding me of when I was your home, when I had your heart. Reminding me even though it's been years since I've seen you. Years since I've been home.


End file.
